


The Passing of the King

by bunn



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elves & Men, Gen, Mortality, Númenor, Peredhil - Freeform, Second Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 06:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14731424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn
Summary: Elros dies. Not exactly the human way.





	The Passing of the King

Death was not unfamiliar. He was born to war, had seen his first battle at the age of six. Had been, by necessity, a soldier almost from his childhood, and in a war more than forty years long had had faced death many times, and near lost count of deaths that he had dealt. 

The deaths of peace were familiar too. Every one of the Edain who had travelled with him to the Land of Gift had grown old and died. His wife had gone from the world long ago. 

Elros had stayed in Arda longer than any Man had done before. 

He had built his cities and established his people in their new land. He had written songs and histories, had watched the sun rise so many times in the golden East, where far beyond sight lay Middle-earth, and set in glory in the west, where the last light touched on the white tower of Avallónë, in the harbour of Tol Eressëa, forever forbidden to him and all his chosen race of Men. 

He had almost as many friends among the Elves who visited from the West as he had among his own people. His children were full grown, and their children too. Vardamir had never been suited to kingship, and so Elros had lingered longer than he might otherwise have done. 

But the Children of Elros had made their choice in turn. Vardamir’s son Amandil was more than ready to take on the kingship now.

Elros looked out from the heights of the Meneltarma, out into the misty West, and then turned to look East instead, down over the peaceful green fields and the bright woods, spring-green with new leaves, to the prosperous little towns and villages. Beyond them, he could see the pale glint of the Firth of Rómenna, where the fishing boats would be going out by now, though even the keen eyes of Elros, as sharp as they had ever been, could not see them at such a distance. 

It would not be too much longer before they would have ships of their own sailing East from Rómenna, ships that would be the equal of Círdan’s, capable even of making the long and dangerous passage all the way back to Lindon and the Gulf of Lune. 

Elros would never again see Middle-earth, but Manwendil would, the only one of his children who had chosen to be counted with Elves and not with Men. He would go to Elrond, and carry all the family news, and he would be happy among the Eldar of Lindon, happier than he could be as an immortal among mortals in the Land of Gift. 

Manwendil had always been looking for something that was not in the Isle of Gift, was not in the eyes and faces of the Edain of Númenor, or the visitors from Tol Eressëa. Perhaps in Middle-earth he would find it, and if not, then at least Elrond would look after him, and he could look after Elrond, too, among the shadows and the perils that haunted Middle-earth.

It was the best that Elros could do for both of them. 

In truth, Elros felt little of the weariness that was supposed to come to Men. The Sea still shone for him in shades of green and blue that were forever new. The Sun sparkling through spring rain and the brilliance of the stars of Elbereth still lifted up his heart. He had embraced his children, had walked up alone onto the mountain and had not caught his breath in all the long climb.

His hair was black as it had ever been, his face unlined as the face of an Elf, and his eyes were still bright. 

You could not learn to be a Man in one lifetime, though he had tried. 

This was not how it was supposed to be. Men were not made to endure with Arda. 

But more than half of Elros’s bone and blood was Elven, and his body did not know how to age. 

Instead of weariness, he felt a great curiosity. So many had gone before him: his wife, dearly beloved, the friends of many hundreds of years, and before them, Beren himself, and Lúthien. Húrin, who had always been his favourite, in all the songs and tales, for his mighty stand against the Enemy, his strength against the will of Morgoth despite his long years of torment. He remembered, across so many long years, Maedhros speaking of Húrin as he had been, the young lord of Dor-lómin before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and of his long steadfast trial as a prisoner of the Enemy. 

Elros had made a law that silence should be observed upon the Meneltarma, but there was no-one here to hear him, and in any case for a few more hours he was the King. 

“Day shall come again,” he said quietly, looking out over the peace of Númenor, and a small warm scented wind took his words and blew them away into the East. “Day has come again, for Men, Húrin, at least for a while. I hope you can see it.”

He laid himself down upon the smooth rock, which still held the faintest echo of the day’s warmth, and waited for the evening star to come pricking companionably out into the deepening blue, so that he could lift a hand to it and say a last farewell. 

Then he took off his body. It turned out to be as easy as taking off a coat, and without it, he could see the road clear ahead of him: the shining road that would lead to the Halls of Mandos and far beyond the world, to find out, at long last, what lay there and greet all those who had gone before him.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a brief note somewhere that refers to Erestor as a half-elf, and Elrond's kinsman, and I liked it. I also like the idea that Elros's children also had a choice to make. It seems too simple to have them bound by Elros's choice when Elrond's children weren't bound by his. So I decided that Erestor is Manwendil, and he changed his name because he chose to sail back to Middle-earth rather than go to Valinor.


End file.
